I’m sitting on the couch—or rather, reclining somewhere in between lying and sitting up at some mysteriously perfect angle that puts a newborn baby right to sleep—and the skies are gray and blustery outside. The aforementioned newborn is curled up resting against my chest; there’s a specific and particular comfort to the sweet, heavy weight of a baby pressing against your skin. I lean down every so often to brush my lips against the top of his head, where his skin is soft and scented with the clean cotton smell of the Johnson’s baby lotion I rub over him after a tub.

It's 9:44 PM on Thursday. I'm sitting on the couch with a blanket tossed over my lap. The dryer is clinking in the background, and the apartment is still warm from heat of the day. I threw open the windows this morning and let the sun stream in. Upstairs, the bedroom is cool and dark and quiet, and my bed awaits: I'll pull back the crisp white cotton sheets and slide in. 

Let's have a quick chat tonight. Specifically, let's talk about salads.

If you've been following along with me on Instagram (of course you are, why miss out on such wit?!), it's possible that you think I subsist on large slices of chocolate layer cake and cookie crumbs.

That is decidedly not the case. I do love a good dessert, and I do have a wicked sweet tooth.